Category Archives: Writing

Forgive the stillness of last week. I could give you the story of how I was kidnapped by aliens, but the truth is, the winter weather has kicked it up a notch, and thus I’ve been in immense amounts of pain. As well, I have been playing Mass Effect, a game that I find highly addictive. When I feel the worst, physically, an intense video game often does much to sooth me. I can live through my character and be tough and useful, instead of feeling trapped by a body that doesn’t let me do all the things I would like to do anymore.

I’ve also been pondering bridges, lately. This is one of those weird episodes of writer’s block that I go through. Sometimes, I write so intensely and get so much written that my mind freezes up like a winter stream. I’m left pondering how to move forward. Read More »

Tria had been given a dark corner, a carafe of mulled wine, and a simple goblet. Her cloak dripped dry on the chair beside her. For the rain, most at the combination tavern and inn were in their rooms. There would be few travellers coming in. The women and men that plied the trade of their bodies were probably up in rooms with customers already, and save for a loan bard with a travel-harp on his lap near one of the two fireplaces, well, a near empty room would yield few patrons for their art.

The headache and eyestrain caused by the Flash were beginning to wear off. This was helped, slightly, by the wine and the dark corner. Read More »

(I’ll sometimes take a picture and write a story based on the impressions it gives me. This one of the starts to one of these stories.)

Tria pressed her back against one of the last trees before the clearing broke, like a wound, through the ancient forest. The canopy did nothing to stop the torrent of water as it washed over her dark blue cloak. Despite the weatherproofing, the cloak had seen many seasons worth of weather. Beneath it, her dark green deerskin tunic and dark brown leather pants and boots were logged with water to the linen undershirt and trousers beneath that she wore. Her black hair was braided tight and twisted about her head. Despite the years since she had left her people, she could not lose the taboo a blade touching her mane would be. For her people, the lesson to never cut hair after the adulthood ceremony was, literally, beaten into each person at the onset of puberty. Read More »

(Sometimes, I put myself into “automatic” and write whatever comes to mind to unwind. This is an example of such)

He saw her, and when he did, he nearly crushed the crystal goblet in his hand. She still had stars for eyes, coral colored lips curled into the familiar, breathtakingly beautiful smile. He could hear her laughter through the stretch of years better than he could hear it across the crowded ballroom. Against the wall, he was inconspicuous as she walked into the room. Yet, somehow, her eyes went straight to his, out of the hundreds. He saw there his universe reflect back to him. A warrior cry of triumph wanted to rip itself from his throat in what would have shattered the same inspiration. Her eyes had a fleeting moment of pain that made him more ashamed than he could ever name as much as it thrilled him. Yes, he had seen her. Moreover, she had seen him, and she still knew him. Read More »

I’ve gone on at length about my rather intense dreams, which are in full colour and within which I feel pain. Usually, I have a common thread going through my dreams; water.

Even as a child, I was obsessed with water. From the time that I nearly drowned when I was around Kai’s age, I become obsessed with being in the water as much as I possibly could. I couldn’t get enough. I took to swimming lessons like a pro. When we moved to my parents’ house in the country and had our own pool, I would swim in it at all hours, at all temperatures, from the time we opened it and it became “safe” to swim in, until the very bitter (and I do mean that literally) end of summer when my dad forced me out to close it. The majority of my summer days were spent swimming, often as much as 12 hours a day. Read More »

I grew up with ghosts. They were everywhere in the house that I was raised in. To explain my experiences with ghosts, I must first explain where I live. The Niagara Region has one of the bloodiest histories in all of Canada. War after war has been fought here, from pre-history to only two-hundred years ago. Old Fort Erie, often called the “bloodiest battlefield in Canada”, resides about twenty minutes away. Here, in this area, the British made a stand against the US invasion force that sought to turn my country into another state. The loss of life was great, on both sides, and most of that blood was spilled here, where I was born and raised.

Niagara is also a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water. There’s Lake Ontario to the north, Lake Erie to the south, and the Niagara River, including the famous Niagara Falls, to the east. Various rivers and man-made waterways are strewn all over the place. My research into the paranormal and into energy work both indicate that water is a natural, powerful conductor, if not focus for such things as ghosts. It’s as good an explanation as any, I suppose, to why it seems that everywhere in this area, there are ghost sightings, of one type or another. Read More »

When it comes to writing, there is one thing that I have always loved to do. I have always loved to create the history of the world, of the characters. I suppose that the RPG fan in me coming out. Whenever I play a character, the history of the character, whether relevant to the game play or not, is essential for me to be able to play. In fact, I will often play even computer games and narrate, in my head or otherwise, to myself the thoughts and feelings, and history of the computer avatar I’m using.

I’ve always been thankful for that gift. Being able to write the history is almost as important as being able to write the story itself. Even if you never tell anyone else the history of a world they’re going to be getting a glimpse of, it’s allows the writer to keep the common things in mind.

It’s amazing how often I’ve had the conversation with people regarding money of monthly versus yearly. The fact is, we see a big number and we get intimidated, but a small number is okay. It’s actually amazing how few people stop about how it all adds up in the end. I mean, picture that you have a coffee habit of $5 a day, and you might think that’s not all that bad. However, if I tell you to do the math and you realize that this amounts to $1,825 a year, it suddenly dawns on you. For that couple of cups a coffee you buy a day, saved up, you could go on a cruise.

Sometimes I take my sons to the Butterfly Conservatory in Niagara Falls. It’s a beautiful, crowded yet peaceful place with thousands of jewels fluttering through the air all around you. They love it and I love it. I like taking my camera and seeing just how many varieties I can capture in still while we’re there.

I remember this one time I sought this one particular type of butterfly that had the most gorgeous blue colouring.

Rain and thunder and storms. I’ve watched them all my life. When I moved as a child to a house surrounded by the fields of local farms, I could sit up in my room at night and watch the storms raging without the city’s short horizon blocking my view. Even ‘small’ storms seemed epic without buildings and streetlamps to hide them.

Beyond the inspiration of watching them, storms at night cleared the night air. No matter how humid the day was, or how humid the next day might be, a storm meant that the night air would be clear and crisp. The scents on the air were intoxicating, and the lightning seemed to power my creative juices.